


feel like a quote out of context

by seventhstar



Series: accidentally dating viktor nikiforov: the series [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Accidental Rivalry, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Miscommunication, The Author Regrets Everything, banquet au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-29 15:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10857003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: In which Yuuri accidentally insults Viktor Nikiforov in front of a crowd of reporters, only to discover that apparently being called a 'talentless hack' is what turns Viktor on.This is not how Yuuri envisioned meeting Viktor going, but hey. He'll take it.





	1. talks too much

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookyfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I wanted to write a rivals au, but I also wanted to write an accidentally dating au, but I wanted there to be very little angst. So here we are. Have this "Yuuri accidentally becomes Viktor's rival" au. It's probably going to be pretty short -- I figure two or three more chapters. Honestly I just wanted to make Yuuri have to come up with ways to insult Viktor while he died inside.

**phichit:** ok so dont panic

 **phichit:** but i was googling u and theyre saying u called viktor an talentless hack with no soul and that u said u had more pcs in ur little finger than he did in his whole body

 **phichit:** obviously u would never say that but

The noise Yuuri makes is _not human._

Once he’s done screeching, though, he frantically googles himself to confirm that Phichit isn’t playing some kind of ill-timed practical joke. The first result is a news article from ten minutes ago describing Yuuri’s “controversial comments on this year’s Grand Prix Final gold medalist, Viktor Nikiforov”.

Yuuri makes himself open the article, even though what he wants to do is lie down and die.

“...told reporters that he agreed with every word James Sullivan, one of Nikiforov’s harshest (and only) critics, had said in during his live-tweeting of the GPF. Sullivan’s comments included a description of Nikiforov’s free skate as ‘limp and lifeless’ and he called Nikiforov ‘a talentless hack with no imagination or style’.”

Oh, god, his career is over. That’s it, he’s done. No matter that Yuuri just bombed the Grand Prix Final and came in last place; no matter that Yuuri is a dime-a-dozen skater and always has been.

He just publicly insulted one of his competitors. He just insulted the skater who beat him and everyone else not an hour ago. He just insulted Viktor Nikiforov, who is widely considered to be one of the best, if not the best, of all time.

There is no recovering from this. Everyone will hate him. Viktor will hate him. He should leave, right now, while he still can. Take a flight somewhere, anywhere else. Run away, before someone sees him and asks him who he thinks he is, criticizing the man on top of the podium from sixth place.

There’s a knock on his door. It’s Celestino, asking him if he’s all right. Yuuri has never been less all right in his entire life, but he lets his coach in and lets him try to salvage the situation. Celestino tries to convince him that he should make a statement, either to the press or through social media, explaining the misunderstanding. He tries valiantly to convince Yuuri that this will blow over.

Finally, he puts his foot down and says he expects to see Yuuri at the banquet, regardless of what happens, and leaves Yuuri alone to contemplate the irony. He’s spent his whole career trying to get on the same ice as Viktor, and here he is. Not only did he not completely fail, not only did Viktor mistake him for a fan, not only did Yuuri make an idiot out of himself by agreeing with a reporter because he panicked and was trying to get to the shuttle, but he’s just ensured none of his stupid fantasies about having a civil conversation with Viktor will ever come true.

It occurs to him that Viktor, active as he is on social media, will probably make a public statement.

He turns off his phone and hides in the bathroom until Celestino shows up, twenty minutes before the banquet, to haul him out.

“Please just let me stay here until we fly out,” Yuuri says. He’s fumbling with his tie and wishing Phichit was there to help him with it.

“Yuuri, the most important thing you can do is to act like everything is normal.” Celestino rubs his eyes. “And you need to apologize to Viktor.”

“No!” Yuuri is aghast. He cannot talk to Viktor. He’s not even sure he’s ready to be on the same _plane of existence_ as Viktor.

“Look, I’m not saying you didn’t have a point,” Celestino says. Clearly he has woefully misunderstood Yuuri’s feelings about this disaster, but then again, he doesn’t know about Yuuri’s embarrassing Viktor obsession. “But you know how the press is! You have to give them something or they’ll make it all up.”

How could anyone make up anything worse than the truth, Yuuri thinks. He nods, though, because Celestino is holding onto his arm and physically dragging him to the elevator now. There’s no getting out of it. It’s going to be awful.

They arrive at the banquet.

It _is_ awful.

Yuuri can feel all the eyes on him: sponsors making faces, other skaters whispering to each other, ISU officials looking on disapprovingly. He sticks out, in his department store suit and his slumped shoulders, and he can’t hide from them all. He accepts a drink as soon as Celestino gets drawn into conversation; there is no way drunk Yuuri can be worse than sober Yuuri. Maybe if he drinks enough he’ll forget any of this ever happened.

He’s halfway through a flute of champagne when Christophe comes up to him and slaps his ass.

“Gah!”

“Yuuri,” Chris purrs. “The man of the hour! I never knew you had it in you. Saying such naughty things about Viktor.”

“Hi, Chris.”

“Everyone is amazed. You’re the last person I would have expected to cause a scandal. But don’t worry, we all support you.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri manages.

“Oh, by the way, in about a minute Viktor is going to come over here and hit on you,” Chris says casually. “Insult him some more, will you? He likes it.”

He saunters off before Yuuri can do more than splutter in disbelief.

There is no way Viktor is going to be seen speaking to him in public. Even if he did — Yuuri shudders at the thought — he’ll probably say something cutting and walk away, like the mean girl in a movie. Yuuri will apologize if he gets the chance, but he doubts that it will happen. It can’t happen. It is impossible.

Someone breathes on him.

“You ran off before we could talk, earlier,” Viktor Nikiforov says, directly into his ear. “I’ve been looking for you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri doesn’t actually scream or fall down, but only because all of his muscles simultaneously stop working. Viktor is way too close, leaning into his space, his mouth turned up in a small smile. He is extremely gorgeous and well dressed and his eyes are actually sparkling, like a fairytale prince.

“Viktor.”

Viktor holds out his hand. When Yuuri doesn’t take it, he raises an eyebrow.

“Too good to even shake hands with me?”

“No!” Yuuri grabs Viktor’s outstretched hand with both of his own. He realizes too late he’s just fucked up shaking hands, a basic human skill, but it’s too late. Viktor looks amused.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Viktor.”

“I know who you are,” Yuuri says faintly. “I…I, ah…sorry…”

“Are you nervous?” Viktor asks. He grabs Yuuri’s hands with both of his. “Don’t be. I don’t bite.”

He looks like he bites, in the fun way.

Yuuri tries to extricate his hands, but his arms have decided not to obey him, and he’s not sure he blames them.

“I thought what you said was perfect.”

Yuuri gapes. He’s pretty sure he looks like Phichit in a hamster store. Clearly he misheard.

“No one ever says things like that about me. Except Yakov. He calls me a disgrace to Russia at least once a day.” Viktor beams at him, a smile totally unlike any smile Yuuri has ever seen him wear, a smile so adorable that Yuuri is rendered incapable of protesting the idea of Viktor Nikiforov, living legend, being a disgrace to any nation, particularly the one of which he’s been National Champion for his entire career.

“You were so bold! I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve been waiting to talk to you all day. Did you really mean it when you said I was a _hack?”_ He pronounces the word ‘hack’ like it’s new and exciting.

Yuuri opens his mouth to explain. Here is the best opportunity he’ll ever have to resolve this situation.

Viktor is holding his hands with his hands, now. He’s still way too close. And he looks pleased to see Yuuri, like talking to the last place finalist is exactly what he wants to be doing. Chris, Yuuri realizes with dim horror, is right. Viktor is…hitting on him. On _him._

Because Viktor doesn’t know him. No one knows him. Yuuri knows that this entire situation is a mistake caused by his own idiocy. He knows that he has twenty pictures of Viktor on his walls at home and a framed photo on his desk in Detroit. He knows that he’s Viktor’s fan, that he’s devoted to Viktor’s skating, that he would never, ever willingly say anything bad about him.

But Viktor doesn’t know that. How could he? Yuuri is always careful to be closemouthed with the press (or he was, before today.) He’s never let anyone in Detroit know about how much he likes Viktor, except Phichit. His family and friends back in Hasetsu know, but who’s going to go out there and ask them?

Yuuri knows that ‘controversial and bold’ is an unlikely description of himself, but Viktor has never met him before today. For all he knows, Yuuri could be anyone or anything.

Be brave and charming, instead of shaking in his secondhand shoes.

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “I did. I’ve been waiting to talk to you, too.”

“Really? So you could critique my skating?”

“Because until I talk to you, everyone else is going to keep ignoring me.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Viktor says. He drops Yuuri’s hands, which is disappointing, but then he takes Yuuri’s arm and links it with his own. “I’ll introduce you around.”

“What? No, I —”

“Don’t worry! No one ever ignores me.”

The next hour is a whirlwind of faces and polite greetings and incredulous looks from people who clearly don’t understand what’s going on. Yuuri doesn’t know what’s going on, either, but Viktor is as good as his word: he introduces Yuuri to literally everyone of note at the banquet, and he’s right about no one wanting to ignore him.

Viktor is good at leading the conversations, too. All Yuuri has to do is shake hands correctly, smile, and recite one of the three polite nothings he has memorized for occasions like this. Viktor acts as if what’s happening is totally normal, and no one corrects him. He says nice things about Yuuri’s skating. Yuuri is dizzy; he lets himself be carried along in Viktor’s wake.

At one point Viktor stops and feeds him an appetizer off a decorative toothpick.

Maybe he’s died and gone to heaven.

“You see?” Viktor says, pleased, when they finally stop. “By tomorrow they’ll have forgotten all about this.”

“Right.”

He is dimly aware that he should make conversation. But he can’t think of anything to say, and he desperately wants to say the right thing, to keep Viktor’s attention right on him for as long as possible.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Yuuri checks it quickly; it’s Mari. Vicchan is out of surgery and expected to make a full recovery. He nearly cries with relief, and he tucks the phone away.

“Is something wrong?” Viktor asks.

“No, it’s good news. My dog was sick, but he’s going to be okay.”

“That's great! What kind of dog? Do you have pictures? I love dogs.”

Before Yuuri can freak out too badly about the fact his dog is a poodle named Viktor, they’re interrupted.

“Viktor.” It’s Chris, again. He’s carrying a plate of miniature pastries. “Are you going to monopolize Yuuri all night?”

“Of course.” Viktor winks at Yuuri. “If I let him out of my sight, who knows what he’ll say about me? My reputation will be ruined.”

“Viktor Nikiforov sucks,” Yuuri hears himself say. He nearly clamps a hand over his mouth in horror, but Chris and Viktor both laugh. Viktor steals one of Chris’s pastries and pops it into Yuuri’s open mouth. His fingertips brush Yuuri’s lips.

It’s delicious.

“Go away, Chris. Yuuri isn’t allowed to talk to anyone else until he tells me _everything_ he disliked about my free skate.”

“Fine,” Chris says. “Yuuri, come find us when you escape. J.J. wants to meet you.”

Escape? Ha. Like Yuuri would abandon an evening with Viktor to talk to J.J.

He leaves them alone. People are still sort of watching them, but Yuuri thinks it’s probably Viktor they’re looking at, not him. Viktor tugs him away from the center of the room into the shadow of a pillar.

“Do you dislike me, Yuuri?”

“We only just met,” Yuuri replies. He can feel Viktor’s arm holding his in the crook of his elbow. He licks his lips. “I guess I’m going to reserve judgment.”

Viktor looks at him. It’s very direct. Yuuri feels like he’s looking through Yuuri’s clothes, his skin, into his brain.

“You’re not easily impressed, are you?” Viktor snags two flutes of champagne off the nearest tray and hands one to Yuuri with a flourish. “That’s fine. I like challenges.”

He downs the champagne in one gulp. “Now,” he says. “Are you going to show me pictures of your dog, or shall we get right to my free skate?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are what keep me alive, please and thank you folks


	2. right between the ribs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll only have Viktor’s attention for so long. He’s got to make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, folks. Sorry it took so long! Yuuri and Viktor are at the banquet together, but where will the night take them?

“And that’s why we always wear wigs when we go out, so that no one recognizes us.”

“You seriously go make fun of modern art?”

“A broken toilet is not art,” Viktor sniffs.

It’s surreal to imagine Viktor and Chris giggling behind their hands in some art gallery, mocking whatever they think is weirdest, wearing wigs so no one knows it’s them. Yuuri has always imagined Viktor as being glamorous: attending fancy events and going to nice restaurants and things like that. But Viktor’s stories about his and Chris’s annual vacation make him sound like a ridiculous person.

Yuuri sort of loves it. Viktor’s mouth looks like a heart when he smiles.

“Chris made you sound a lot cooler than this.”

“Don’t believe anything Chris tells you. He doesn’t like dogs.”

Viktor likes dogs. Yuuri knew, academically, that he must, since he’s known for his devotion to Maccachin. But Viktor likes dogs earnestly, probably stops in the street to pet them, shows Yuuri pictures of Maccachin with unfeigned delight, coos over pictures of Vicchan (who Yuuri lied and said was named Yuuchan, after his childhood friend). It’s one thing to know Viktor Nikiforov likes dogs and another entirely to be able to think, _Viktor is a dog person._

They’ve discussed pets. They’ve discussed Yuuri’s childhood in Hasetsu; the minutia of running an onsen, his parents and sister, the Ice Castle where he learned to skate. Viktor described to him his typical training schedule, interspersed with alarming anecdotes about his rinkmates, who all sound like real characters. Now they’ve fallen onto the subject of what they do in the off-season.

As it turns out, Viktor thinks weird art is terrible and also knows how to style wigs.

“My roommate, Phichit, has five hamsters.”

“Oh? How do you feel about that?”

This is Viktor’s favorite question; he’s asked it at least twenty times. The weather in Detroit (gross), the champagne being served at the banquet (Yuuri is a student; all alcohol is good alcohol), Yuri Plisetsky stopping by their table to call them losers (scary yet adorable): Viktor wants to know his opinion about it all.

His eyes never leave Yuuri’s face. They’ve been talking for hours, it feels like. People are probably still watching them, but Yuuri is numb to their judgment.

“They’re cute,” Yuuri admits, “but they bite.”

“Ah, like Yura,” Viktor says. “Only slightly smaller.”

Yuuri surprises himself by laughing. Yuri came over to complain at them earlier, and in contrast to their last encounter, he showed Yuuri a grudging respect. It makes a weird kind of sense; Yuri doesn’t like anyone, as far as Yuuri can tell, so Yuuri not liking Viktor’s skating can only raise him in Yuri’s estimation.

“Do you have a lover?”

“Eh?”

“An ex-lover?”

“No!”

“Really? Why?”

“No reason…”

“Your standards must be very high.”

“They can’t be _that_ high, I’m here talking to you.”

Viktor, mid-drink, splutters. Yuuri watches him awkwardly wipe sparkling cider off his chin and tries very hard not to giggle.

“What do you do for fun, Yuuri?”

“I…” Yuuri mentally filters out what it actually says on his JSF bio, which is gaming, and what he actually does, which is participate in Phichit’s bad ideas and cry. “I skate.”

“Obviously,” Viktor says. “But what else?”

“I study.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m pretty busy.”

“You must do something.” Viktor is pouting.

Has he ever done anything interesting? Yuuri practices as much as possible — in the studio on campus late night, on the rink whenever he can get time on the ice, in the living room with the furniture pushed back when the weather is bad — and he always has homework due. He goes out once in awhile, but he can’t imagine any of the parties he remembers being interesting.

The parties Yuuri doesn’t remember…well, there’s photographic evidence, so everyone involved can’t be lying to him. Drunk Yuuri is a completely different person.

Yuuri swallows.

“I, uh.” He licks his lips and catches Viktor’s gaze flicking down towards his mouth. “I did take a pole dancing class.”

“Did you.”

“For core strengthening.”

“Wow.” Viktor shakes his head dramatically. “I wish my core workout was that interesting.”

Yuuri may or may not have a Youtube playlist dedicated to Viktor’s increasingly sexy cologne ads. It’s possible he’s watched that one ad where Viktor is lounging across an actual chaise, mostly naked, more than ten times. If maybe he’s paused the video right as the camera pans up Viktor’s body, no one except Yuuri needs to know.

“Your core is fine,” he blurts out. “I mean. It’s great. Really...strong.”

“I thought I was ugly.”

“Your skating is ugly.” Yuuri rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “ _You_ aren’t.”

“That reminds me, you still haven’t critiqued my free skate!”

“Right.”

Yuuri does not want to critique Viktor’s free skate.

For one thing, he has no idea what he’d even say. It’s Viktor Nikiforov! Viktor is objectively better at skating than Yuuri is in every possible way. And Yuuri isn’t in the habit of critiquing other people, anyway; he helps his rinkmates from time to time, but he always feels weird doing it. It’s one thing to occasionally insult Viktor just to make him smile. Even Yuuri can fake that much. But how is he going to come up with a whole critique that doesn’t out him as a liar?

He needs to stall.

“Do you dance?”

“Ballroom, mostly.” Viktor waves a hand. “And I had to learn ballet, but I hate it.”

“What?”

“It’s boring.”

“What?” Yuuri says, way too loudly. “But — that’s not — you seriously hate ballet?”

“I don’t mind watching it. I’ve seen the Bolshoi,” Viktor says. He mentions achieving one of Yuuri’s childhood dreams as easily as Yuuri might mention a late night run to 7-11 for onion rings. “I just hate having to do it.”

“So...you never do ballet.”

“Four times a week during the season and two when I’m off. It’s good for my skating.” Viktor sighs. “It’s even worse than having to diet, though.”

“You hate ballet.” Yuuri shakes his head. “I can’t believe it. You, Viktor Nikiforov, living legend of Russia, hate ballet. Yakov is right, you are a disgrace.”

“You’re so mean, Yuuri. You love ballet, right?”

“Since I was a kid.”

“I could tell by the way you skate. You move beautifully.”

Viktor has to stop saying things like that, because Yuuri’s poor heart can’t take it. The absolute last thing he wants to do is discuss his performance.

“Let’s dance.”

Both of them look over at the banquet hall. There is indeed an empty space in the center of the room meant for dancing, and there is some bland, quiet music playing in the background, perfecting for gently swaying couples who don’t actually know how to dance.

Yuuri opens his mouth to take back his stupid suggestion and then closes it. One, Viktor is smirking at him like he knows Yuuri is about to run away, and two, it has just occurred to Yuuri that when two people dance they have to touch each other. He imagines being held, even briefly, in Viktor’s arms.

“I’d love to dance,” Viktor says.

Yuuri leaves his jacket hung over the back of his chair and rolls up his sleeves. He catches Viktor’s wrist and pulls him out onto the floor.

And now he’s got to do something really impressive. Yuuri loves to dance but he usually needs either the pressure of a failing grade or the courage of a few drinks before he’ll do it publicly. Viktor’s eyes are on him though; Yuuri can feel a phantom sensation between his shoulders, on the back of his neck.

He’ll only have Viktor’s attention for so long. He’s got to make the most of it.

Yuuri takes three long steps backwards and takes up the first pose.

This isn’t Yuuri’s routine. It isn’t even a dance he ever formally learned. He saw it in a movie, once, and he slept through the beginning and the end, but he remembers the middle portion vaguely. There was love, and drama, and crying, and the music was loud, and the plot was lost on Yuuri. What he remembered were the dancers: dressed in opposing white and black, spiraling towards each other like the arms of a galaxy, as inexorable in their attraction as gravity.

Viktor, mimicking Yuuri’s movements barely an arm’s length away, has that same planet-like pull.

(In all his teenage fantasies about dancing with Viktor Nikiforov, Yuuri never imagined that it would be fun.)

There is a brief moment where they reach for each other and go off beat because they’re both trying to lead. Viktor laughs, bright and open. Yuuri seizes him by the waist, and they go spinning across the floor. Viktor lets Yuuri lead him: through a half-remembered tango, into a sequence where Yuuri braces Viktor’s weight against him, into a dip where Viktor’s blushing cheek ends up warm under Yuuri’s thumb.

The sound of applause shocks Yuuri back to the present.

Everyone is staring at them. Several people are clapping. Chris wolf-whistles. Yuuri’s face burns in embarrassment. He’s suddenly aware of the fact that there’s no music playing, and no one else is dancing. _Oh well,_ he tells himself in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to calm himself down. _It’s not like I didn’t already make a spectacle out of myself earlier._

“Come on,” Viktor murmurs.

Yuuri follows him numbly out of the banquet hall.

The hotel lobby is deserted; Yuuri realizes Viktor is leading him towards the elevators and panics. Are they going up to Viktor’s room? To Yuuri’s room? Does Viktor want him to…? Does Yuuri even want to…?

He looks around for a distraction, anything to keep his mind off of the mix of anticipation and terror in his stomach, and ends up staring out at the glass doors leading out of the hotel.

“It’s snowing.”

“Really?” Viktor whips around, grabs Yuuri’s hand, and drags him to the nearest window. He presses his free hand against the glass like a child. “Wow!”

Everything looks softer under a layer of snow. The corners of the buildings are rounded, the harsh lights of the street lamps hazy, the sounds of the city muffled. It’s as if the Sochi of this morning has disappeared, replaced by an alien winter world.

“Weather like this always makes me homesick,” Viktor says. “Maccachin loves snow.”

He drinks in Viktor’s expression, watches the sparkle on the surface of the snow get reflected in Viktor’s eyes. He looks happy, watching the snowflakes float down and imagining his poodle playing. Maybe that’s why Yuuri finds himself watching Viktor instead of the scenery. Maybe that’s why he tells Viktor the truth.

“The first time it snowed in Detroit I cried.”

“Why?”

Yuuri ducks his head. He was pathetic then, his English mangled, his body weak and his heart weaker. Detroit was huge and grey and lonely, and Yuuri felt like a weed trying to grow in the cracks of a sidewalk, constantly reaching for something to sustain him that wasn’t there.

Viktor squeezes his hand.

“It was so different from Hasetsu. I wanted to go home. But I knew I had to stay in Detroit if I was ever going to skate —”

He stops. _— on the same ice as you._

But of course he can’t say that to Viktor. Viktor thinks Yuuri dislikes his skating. He’d probably laugh if he knew how deeply Yuuri admired him. Everything he likes about Yuuri is fake.

“ — at the Grand Prix Final.”

“Well, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“It looks bad, but the weather in Sochi is usually warmer than this.” Viktor smiles at him. “By tomorrow it will all be gone.”

 _Yes,_ Yuuri thinks. _And so will you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment to save a life. my life.


	3. like a thief in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yuuri,” Viktor says. “How long are you going to keep me waiting?”
> 
> “Waiting for what?”
> 
> “My critique!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter contains an explicit sex scene. also, they should have used protection, but didn't. don't be like them, guys. safe sex only.

As they get into the elevator together, Yuuri screws up his courage.

The elevator comes to a stop on Yuuri’s floor. He steps out, pauses, looks over his shoulder. Viktor looks confused, head cocked to the side. Vicchan does the same thing. Yuuri stifles a laugh.

“Aren’t you coming?”

He walks away before Viktor can answer, but the scrape of Viktor’s shoes against the floor betrays him. Viktor’s footsteps follow him down the hall, to his hotel room, until Viktor is breathing on the back of his neck while Yuuri fumbles with the key card.

“Here,” Viktor murmurs, reaching around Yuuri to take the key card from his traitorous fingers. “Let me.”

It is absolutely ridiculous to read anything into the smooth way that Viktor inserts the card into the reader. Or into the way Viktor crowds Yuuri against the door as he pushes it open. Or into the way Viktor keeps a hand on Yuuri’s back as Yuuri pulls the door shut behind him.

The room is messy — the bed unmade, Yuuri’s softest and rattiest flannel pajamas on the floor, his bag unzipped and overflowing — but with Viktor’s fingertips resting in the dip of Yuuri’s spine he finds it hard to care. He’s stolen Viktor away from the banquet; they are alone, for the first time ever.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. “How long are you going to keep me waiting?”

“Waiting for what?”

“My critique!”

“Oh, that,” Yuuri says. “Do you really want to know what I think?” He turns around and Viktor is right there, close enough that Yuuri can feel him exhale against his skin.

“Yes.” Viktor catches Yuuri’s chin, thumbs at his lip. “I do.”

“Are you sure?” Yuuri asks, dragging out the last word teasingly.

“Yes.”

“Are you _su_ —”

Viktor interrupts him with a kiss. And then another, and another, and he’s cupping Yuuri’s face and pushing his suit jacket down his shoulders and his mouth tastes like champagne and Yuuri throws his arms around his neck and kisses back like he’s drowning and Viktor is the only air left in the world.

 _Oh,_ Yuuri thinks. _I wasn’t reading too much into it after all._

“Viktor,” he says, breathless. His voice sounds nothing like his voice, Viktor’s name coming out low and desperate.

“Can I,” Viktor asks.

There’s no need to finish the question. Yuuri presses himself up against Viktor and whispers, “Yes.”

Their mouths meet again. Yuuri gets Viktor’s shirt untucked and slides his hands under, feels the planes of his chest, the straight line of his spine. Viktor is unbuttoning Yuuri’s shirt one-handed — some distant, disbelieving part of Yuuri is impressed by his dexterity — even as he curls his fingers into the hair at the nape of Yuuri’s neck, where the skin is shockingly sensitive and no doubt bright red.

Viktor drags his nails all the way down Yuuri’s bare chest, from between his collarbones to the waistband of his dress pants, and his hand brushes Yuuri’s erection through his clothes. The contact is electric. Yuuri makes a noise: too high, sucker-punched, humiliating. His hips jerk towards Viktor’s body.

“Here,” Viktor says, and his hands drop to the backs of Yuuri’s thighs. He kisses Yuuri again and Yuuri lets his tongue drag against the roof of Viktor’s mouth and then nearly bites himself in surprise when Viktor picks him up, carries him across the room, and drops him onto the bed.

Yuuri was crying into these sheets only hours ago and now he’s lying here with Viktor leaning over him. Viktor is stripping off his clothes hurriedly, his crisply ironed shirt and jacket land in a crumpled heap on the floor. He is, in fact, exactly as cut as all those cologne ads made him appear. And he’s panting, stomach concave with exertion.

There’s a wet spot on the apex of the bulge in Viktor’s pants. Yuuri licks his lips. He tosses his belt off of the bed to land with the rest of his clothes, inelegantly wrestles off his pants. Viktor’s eyes flick down, hungrily, and Yuuri hears himself make an impatient noise. He wants Viktor come closer, to bend down so Yuuri can get back to touching him, to tremble against him in ecstasy until Yuuri forgets to be in awe of him.

How many people have seen Viktor like this? It doesn’t matter, as long as Yuuri gets to be one of them.

He drinks in Viktor’s body as he finishes undressing — the sharp edge of his hip, the ripping muscles of his thighs, his cock red and thick and curved left, Viktor’s long fingers as he slicks himself up — and inhales as Viktor finally, finally gets on top of him. Viktor is heavy. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he straddles Yuuri, knees alongside Yuuri’s thighs, long fingers trailing over Yuuri’s open mouth and down his neck. The tip of his cock brushes against Yuuri, leaves a long wet trail on his skin.

“Well?” Viktor is smiling.

Yuuri is so distracted by Viktor’s soft, soft expression that he can’t respond. It takes him a moment to process that Viktor is asking him a question. Viktor is asking him what he wants.

“Between my legs,” Yuuri says. He parts his thighs.

Viktor slides his erection between them, and Yuuri grips him as hard as he dares. Viktor’s body slumps over his. He comes close enough for Yuuri to kiss along his jawline; he can feel the beginning of stubble under his lips. The whole world has narrowed to the places their bodies are touching. Viktor’s heartbeat — the thump of his chest against Yuuri’s, the pulse in his cock twitching between Yuuri’s thighs, the racing blood in his neck under Yuuri’s fingers — drowns out all the thoughts in Yuuri’s head.

They move against each other. Viktor is hot and slick against the inside of his thighs; Yuuri does his best to match him, but every inch of his skin feels like it’s burning, every hair stands on end, every slow slide of Viktor’s skin on him robs Yuuri of all his coordination. His cock is trapped between their stomachs, and the friction against Viktor’s body is delicious. He clings to Viktor, one hand in the dip of his spine, the other on the back of his neck.

Yuuri has fantasized about touching Viktor’s hair and here he is, silvery strands fine and damp between his fingers.

Viktor is saying Yuuri’s name in a way that makes every syllable filthy. Yuuri can’t manage that level of coherence; he muffles his whimpering against the side of Viktor’s neck. He can taste the sweat on Viktor’s skin. He can make Viktor’s breath hitch with his teeth. He’d keep Viktor like this forever if he could: needy, rutting up against him, entirely human.

“Yuuri, you’re so good…”

“Viktor,” Yuuri gasps, and comes. Viktor exhales between gritted teeth, and Yuuri feels him finish against his thighs.

The sound of his breathing seems impossibly loud. Yuuri feels hazy, like he’s underwater. Viktor is still lying on him, and Yuuri traces down his ribs before allowing himself the luxury of playing with Viktor’s hair again. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he should be more self-conscious, but he can’t quite manage it.

He seduced Viktor. _Successfully._ If someone had told him, just hours ago, that this was how this night was going to end, he wouldn’t have believed them. He probably would have decked them.

But here Viktor is.

“Hey,” Viktor mumbles. He rolls over so that he’s on his back beside Yuuri. His calf rests over Yuuri’s shin. “You’re not going to start critiquing my performance _here,_  are you?”

“No!” Yuuri covers his face with his hands. There’s that self-consciousness he was missing, back with a vengeance. He feels the sudden urge to suck in his stomach. “I — I am definitely not qualified.”

“So modest.”

“I don’t usually do this.” Technically, this is true. Yuuri doesn’t usually do this. In fact, he never does this, would never think of being this vulnerable in front of a stranger, especially at a competition where his nerves are already raw. It’s only because it’s Viktor, who occupies a liminal space in Yuuri’s heart as a stranger that Yuuri knows everything about, that Yuuri even tried it tonight. “Not like you do.”

Viktor doesn’t seem offended by the assumption. Yuuri can see his profile; the corner of his mouth is turned up. And in Yuuri’s defense, Viktor brought a travel size lube packet with him to an official ISU banquet. Yuuri doesn’t even own any travel size lube.

“Speaking of critiques…”

Yuuri’s stomach turns over.

There’s no way he can delay this any longer. He could just refuse, but — Viktor is propped up on one elbow now, he looks so hopeful — Yuuri doesn’t want to disappoint him.

Viktor has been so nice to him.

“Okay,” Yuuri says. He sits up, and Viktor follows suit. He holds out a hand. “Pass me my phone.”  
  
Viktor has to dangle himself awkwardly off the side of the bed to get Yuuri’s phone, which is still in his suit jacket. Yuuri stares at the back of his head, at the hair sticking out at odd angles where Yuuri’s fingers were tangled in it, until Viktor finally hauls himself back up.  
  
He holds out the phone triumphantly.  
  
Yuuri takes it and begins searching for footage of Viktor’s free skate. He finds a compilation on the first page — thousands of likes, comments gushing with praise, one lone commenter making aspersions on Viktor’s masculinity — and hits play.  
  
The music is tinny, but the camera follows Viktor as closely as a lover would. Yuuri watches it three times, trying not to be too enthralled by the way Viktor swoons to the first few notes or by how weightless Viktor’s quads look. He’s supposed to be looking for flaws, he reminds himself. He probably should have read the article he supposedly agreed with beforehand, but it feels disingenuous to offer Viktor someone else’s critique.  
  
The least he can do is offer his own, as meager as it might be.  
  
What would he say if this was someone else’s program? If it was Phichit’s? If it was _his?_  
  
“Well…”  
  
“Go on.” Viktor drops his head onto Yuuri’s shoulder.  
  
“The music and choreography are fine, and I can sort of follow the story, but the way you perform it...I can’t figure out what it’s supposed to make me feel. I can’t even figure out what you feel.”  
  
Viktor doesn’t say anything, but one of his hands wanders absently over Yuuri’s back, and he takes that as permission to keep talking.

(Their mutual nakedness is starting to make him uncomfortable. At least right now he has a distraction.)  
  
“It’s not performed like it means anything to you.”  
  
Still no response.  
  
“You don’t embody this story the way you have in the past,” Yuuri declares with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Even your short program is better.”  
  
“What would you suggest, then?”  
  
“S-suggest?”  
  
“To fix it. You always get very high PCS, so it should be no problem, right?”  
  
Yuuri deflates. Every time he thinks he’s gotten a handle on this game he’s playing, Viktor upends the board. It was physically painful to pick out those flaws in Viktor’s program — even as some tiny, prideful part of him nodded along furiously to every word — and now Viktor wants him to come up with a solution. Yuuri once spent thirty minutes psyching himself up to call and make an appointment for a routine dental cleaning, but sure, he’ll just casually give five time Grand Prix Finalist Viktor Nikiforov advice on his program.  
  
He pretends to be engrossed in the video again while Viktor hums and snuggles into his side.  
  
“Right here,” he says. He taps the screen to pause. “You keep performing all the movements the same way, even though the mood of the song changes. That’s where you lose me.”

Viktor hums in thought.  
  
“Do you know the story?”

“I’ve read a translation of the lyrics,” Yuuri admits. “My Italian is pretty basic, though, so I don’t know how accurate it was.”

“Allow me, then.”

Viktor hits play.

“I hear a voice weeping in the distance. Have you, too, been abandoned?” he says softly. Yuuri shivers as the Viktor onscreen skates. As the intensity of the music increases, Viktor’s clean, precise performance looks more and more disconnected from it. “With a sword I wish I could cut the throats of those singing about love.” His nails dig into Yuuri’s back. All the sweetness has dropped out of his voice. “I wish I could freeze the hands that write those verses of burning passion.”

The next line comes out snarled. “This story that has no meaning will vanish tonight with the stars…”

The Viktor onscreen looks sad. The Viktor beside him sounds enraged.

Viktor’s performance is a lie.

Yuuri wants to say something. He has never wanted to be able to say the right thing as much as he does in this moment. It feels like he’s cracked Viktor open and caught a glimpse of the marrow of his bones. Yuuri wants more.

“Why are you holding back?” he asks. “I want to see the real Viktor skate this.”

Viktor turns to look at him. His eyes widen, round as the moon. Yuuri offers him a wobbly smile.

“The real me, huh?” Viktor slumps against him again. “You’re so mean, Yuuri.”

The tension breaks, and Yuuri allows himself to slide his free arm over Viktor’s shoulders. He traces the kanji of his name on Viktor’s skin. He yawns; it’s very late, and his eyes are starting to droop, but he doesn’t want this night to end.

Onscreen, Viktor’s program is still playing. _Stay close to me, don’t go away…_

Yuuri turns it off.

There’s not much time left. What else can he say to Viktor, to keep his interest? He’s given Viktor what he wanted.

Maybe it’s best he let Viktor go gracefully.

“Is your flight tomorrow early? Maybe you should go to bed.”

“I am in bed! Besides, my flight will be late.”

“I thought you said the snow would all be melted by morning.”

“It’s Aeroflot.”

Yuuri snorts, despite himself. His flight is in the afternoon, and he’s going to take a sleeping pill as soon as he’s onboard, anyways, so it doesn’t really matter.

He yawns again.

“Ah, I’ve kept you awake too long.”

Viktor is folding Yuuri into his arms before he can put up even a token protest, and he is tucked beneath the covers before he knows it. Viktor leans over him to turn off the lamp, and then they’re snuggled up in Yuuri’s double bed. He can touch Viktor’s ankles with his toes. It’s surreal.

It’s lovely. Yuuri breathes in the way Viktor smells and commits it to memory.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and hopes the longing in his heart doesn’t touch his voice.

“Goodnight, Yuuri,” Viktor whispers back. “You are the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Viktor’s fingertips caress the back of Yuuri’s neck. He keeps his face against Viktor’s shoulder, glad that the blush he must surely be wearing is hidden, and allows himself to close his eyes. Close to Viktor like this, both of them naked and sweaty and vulnerable, Yuuri can imagine they’re the same. He can imagine that Viktor is someone he can hold on on to.

His eyes slip shut and when he opens them he is cold and alone.

Yuuri determinedly does not look at the dent in the mattress where Viktor slept, and he showers to wash away all traces of last night. He dresses in his threadbare travel clothes and spends the morning staring at the ceiling. Even so, he is ready half an hour ahead of schedule. Celestino gives him a significant look but says nothing. He just bundles Yuuri into the taxi with all his luggage and takes care of everything until they’re sitting at the gate waiting to board.

It’s a long flight back to America. Plenty of time to relive every moment of last night; plenty of time to mourn its inevitable end.

“You should text Phichit, let him know we’re on time,” Celestino says. “I’m going to get coffee. Do you want anything?”

He must look depressed if Celestino is offering him extra calories. Yuuri shakes his head and digs his phone out of his pocket. It’s dead; he hadn’t bothered plugging it in last night or this morning. There’s a charging station nearby. After a harrowing encounter with a dead-eyed older woman carrying a power strip in her purse, he finally turns his phone back on.

He has too many notifications to bother with. He swipes across the screen to delete them. He doesn’t have time for Twitter or Instagram or his Viktor Nikiforov Google Alert or —

**4 new messages from <3 VIKTOR <3**

_Oh, fuck._

**< 3 VIKTOR <3:** have a good trip!

 **< 3 VIKTOR <3:** made it home safely!

 **< 3 VIKTOR <3:** [makkachin.jpg] look how happy makka is

 **< 3 VIKTOR <3:** text me ur email i want to send u my updated free skate ;)

“Oh, fuck.”

“Yuuri?” Celestino is standing over him. “Are you all right?”

Yuuri buries his face in his hands. Viktor, in addition to adding his number to Yuuri’s phone, also took a selfie and set it as his profile picture in Yuuri’s contacts, and now the image of Viktor smiling in the dim light of a Russian morning with sex hair and a bite mark under his jaw is permanently fixed in Yuuri’s brain. His heart is pounding.

He’s terrified. He’s confused. He’s _happy._

“I’m fine,” he manages, and he accepts the enormous green tea frappuccino Celestino is offering. “I just have some ideas about Nationals…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only comments can cure my writer's blockitis trust me im a scientist


	4. coming out of left field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Viktor wants them to be on friendlier terms. That’s fine. They did hook up, after all, so it would be weird to be too formal. Even if that is how Yuuri normally handles his hook ups. It might not even mean anything. Viktor might just be being nice. 
> 
> (If this fulfills some of Yuuri’s extremely specific fantasies regarding Viktor and Russian diminutives, well, that’s just a bonus.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! i've been working on this for a long time, so i hope it's enjoyable...
> 
> thanks to meg + spooky for the betaing!

**[-11 days until Nationals]**

Once Yuuri is off the plane, he turns on his phone and, after some deliberation about if he looks too eager, texts Viktor back.

 **me:** my email is  yuurikatsudon@yahoo.com

The response comes immediately.

 **< 3 VIKTOR <3:** yuuri!!!

 **me:** hey viktor

 **me:** made it back to detroit

 **< 3 VIKTOR <3:** call me vitya yuuri

 **me:** why

 **< 3 VIKTOR <3:** its cuter

 **me:** hey vitya

Yuuri is in the process of typing out another message, _how are you,_ when his phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. It’s Viktor. He looks around—he’s alone, Celestino has gone to call his wife—before he answers.

“Yuuri!”

“Viktor.”

“Vitya,” Viktor corrects.

“Vitya,” Yuuri repeats.

So Viktor wants them to be on friendlier terms. That’s fine. They did hook up, after all, so it would be weird to be too formal. Even if that is how Yuuri normally handles his hook ups. It might not even mean anything. Viktor might just be being nice.

(If this fulfills some of Yuuri’s extremely specific fantasies regarding Viktor and Russian diminutives, well, that’s just a bonus.)

There’s empty seats by the wall; Yuuri takes the one closest to the glass and stares, unseeing, out at the tarmac. He turned on his phone because he was bored, and he turned off all his notifications because he wasn’t ready to face the consequences of his insanity. He was able to guess, from Viktor’s messages, that Viktor wanted to keep talking to him.

He’s still not exactly sure about what.

“Did you need something?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Yuuri stares down at the linoleum tile, his face burning, and is violently grateful that Viktor can’t see him.

“R-really?”

“No one’s challenged me like you have. Not in years. Oh, people say they want to beat me, but when you said you had more artistry in your little finger than I do in my whole body—”

Yuuri swallows down the disappointment before what Viktor is actually saying registers.

First of all, that is not true, and second of all, what the _hell_ was in that article Sullivan wrote? Yuuri is going to have to sit down and read it at some point now. Yuuri’s not a fan of Sullivan, whose day job is a podcast that is controversial primarily because he likes to interview celebrities and act like an asshole to their faces. His figure skating blogging is popular enough, but Yuuri’s learned the hard way that reading people talk shit about Viktor only leads Yuuri to madness, and getting into fights on the Internet, and waking up with five new sockpuppet accounts with usernames like _rawmeviktor69._

(Drunk Yuuri strikes again.)

“I’m going to prove you wrong at Worlds, Yuuri. I hope you’re ready.”

“That’s funny,” Yuuri says. “I was just about to say the same thing.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not the only one changing his programs. You’ll see. I—”

Yuuri can’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence, to admit out loud he wants a gold medal, to surpass Viktor. To describe himself as Viktor’s rival seems unspeakably arrogant. Besides, if Viktor is focused on beating him, and he thinks Yuuri is focused on beating him, won’t that by necessity limit their conversation?

Viktor squeals. “Great! Challenge accepted! And I’ll help you with your programs, too!”

“You—you will?”

“Of course! As repayment for your critique.”

“Uh, that’s not—doesn’t that defeat the purpose of trying to beat me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll be fun. Actually, I have some thoughts about your short program!”

“Tell that pig he needs to kick your ass!” Someone—Yuri Plisetsky, probably—yells. Viktor says something to him in Russia that elicits what is probably the Russian equivalent of telling Viktor to go fuck himself.

Yuuri checks the time and tries to convert to the time in St. Petersburg. Is Viktor at the rink right now?

“Don’t mind him,” Viktor says. “He doesn’t have any rivals, in Juniors, so he’s living vicariously through you, I think.”

“Next year I’m going to wipe the ice with you, Viktor!”

“Tell him to get in line,” Yuuri says.

“Yuuri says ‘get in line’, Yura!”

“Wait, I didn’t mean that literally!” Why does Yuuri keep doing this? That’s exactly what he needs, to accidentally acquire _another_ Russian skating rival. He barely knows how to handle the one he has.

“Whoops!”

There’s some conversation in the background of Viktor’s call that Yuuri can’t make out, and then Viktor sighs. “I have to go now. I’ll call you later!”

“Bye,” Yuuri says.

“Bye!” The call cuts.

Celestino comes back. They drive in silence; Yuuri’s mind is full. Before the banquet, Yuuri was only thinking about the rest of the season in terms of how badly he wished he could avoid it. To appear in Japan, in front of the country he let down, after his failure at the GPF? It was a nightmare. He felt like he didn’t deserve it, like he didn’t want it anymore.

After that, Viktor’s whirlwind charm offensive distracted him pretty thoroughly.

But now…

Eleven days until Nationals. Forty- four days until Four Continents. Seventy- six days until Worlds.

Seventy- six days until he can see Viktor again.

By the time Celestino drops Yuuri off at his apartment, Yuuri is beyond panic. Beyond excitement. Beyond fear. All he knows is this: either he does well at Nationals or he gives up any hope of holding Viktor’s attention.

Viktor wants him to be a rival?

Ridiculous.

_Impossible._

“You’re going to the rink now?” Phichit asks incredulously. He’s halfway through breakfast, spoon midway to his mouth as he watches Yuuri dump his bags on his living room floor before picking his skate bag. “You just got back!”

“Yeah.” Yuuri says. He shoulders his bag. He feels like a live wire, like if he doesn’t get onto the ice he’ll explode. “I need to practice.”

The rink is miraculously empty when Yuuri arrives. He warms up to his short program music on repeat, then switches to the free skate music to do figures while he thinks about what changes he can make between now and Nationals. The song is called _Sundown,_ and it was Minako’s choice. _I thought of you when I heard it,_ she wrote to him in an email. _Knock ‘em dead, kid._

It’s a delicate song, in contrast to Yuuri’s short program, the aggressive and fast _Pygmalion’s Triumph._ Yuuri lost the emotional context during his performance at the GPF, but now he thinks about it.

The song is about endings, and Yuuri doesn’t want to think about those. His career, his relationship with Viktor—those are things he wants to begin, not end. So instead he tries to imagine it another way.

That dreadful period between the start of the GPF and Yuuri coming in last is what’s ending. Yuuri is going to become a new person now, a person who has confidence and does his country proud and doesn’t have to hide in the bathroom and cry after competitions.

For the space of this program, at least, Yuuri decides, he can make the Yuuri Katsuki that called Viktor a hack real.

Viktor wants him to be a rival? Fine.

Yuuri _will._

 

_\+ + +_

 

From: mkatsuki@gmail.com

To: yuurikatsudon@yahoo.com

Subject: Vicchan

Yuuri,

Vicchan is doing well, but he’s still recovering from surgery, so I won’t be able to come and see you skate this time. Minako wants to come, but I told her it might be too much for you right now.

Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Vicchan gets to watch you skate on TV.

We’ll see you at the World Championships.

Mari

 

\+ + +

 

**[-9 days until Nationals]**

Spin. Step sequence. Salchow.

Fall.

Yuuri gets up, takes stock of himself. He’s bruised, but that’s nothing. He’s only done it five times. He stretches, cracks his knuckles. He has a compilation of quad salchow footage Phichit curated for him, which he consults. Then he gets back into position.

He adjusts his headphones and restarts the last minute of _Pygmalion’s Triumph._

Spin. Step sequence. Salchow.

Fall.

 _(You should increase the difficulty of your short program,_ Viktor said casually to him. Yuuri, already awkwardly trying to keep the phone angled so that Viktor couldn’t actually see his bedroom, dropped his phone under the bed. Viktor kept talking as Yuuri laid down and tried to extract his cell. _Your free skate would be fine if you could do all the jumps. But your short program doesn’t take advantage of your skills.)_

If Yuuri stops to think about the changes he’s making to his program—about the amount of time between now and Nationals—about the insanity of Yuuri doing this himself—about the Grand Prix Final results—about anything—he’ll lose it.

So Yuuri doesn’t think about it. He gets up, and thinks, _Viktor’s going to watch me,_ and does it again.

Spin. Step sequence. Salchow.

Land.

 

\+ + +

 

Late at night, Yuuri lies awake, playing Pokemon on autopilot and waiting for sleep to come. He can hear passing traffic on the road outside; what is normally a soothing noise is grating on his nerves. He wants to eat, but that would require getting out of bed and breaking his diet, so he chews gum instead. He’s been through six packs in six days.

He watched Viktor’s practice footage today.

He doesn’t know what is more amazing, the fact that Viktor is sending him video of himself skating or the fact that Viktor is sending him footage where he takes Yuuri’s advice on how to improve his programs. Viktor has asked for footage of Yuuri in return, offered to critique him as payment for his help, but Yuuri’s held him off so far by saying he doesn’t have time, since Nationals are less than a week away.

He’s a coward. Viktor’s already seen him fall flat on his face, it’s not like it matters if Yuuri sends him more footage of his skating sucking—

His phone buzzes, and Yuuri reaches for it, half-expecting another campus safety alert.

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** pls send me pics of ur dog

 **me:** ok?

Yuuri has no idea why Viktor wants pictures of Vicchan at what must be an ungodly hour of the morning in Russia, but he selects a couple good pictures from his homesickness album and sends them over.

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** <3 <3 <3

Yuuri stares at the line of hearts, and gets flustered at how flustered he is over emojis. Viktor isn’t even sending them to Yuuri. He’s sending them to Yuuri’s _dog,_ who of course deserves them because he is a good boy, but…still.

 **me:** <3

 **me:** whats up

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** getting ready to go to practice

 **me:** wow thats early

 **me:** but i guess if ur redoing ur program

 **me:** makes sense

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** no i always go this early

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** i like to skate while the ice is fresh

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** what about u?

His rink in Detroit has a schedule for rink time. Celestino is good about helping Yuuri get time on the rink, but it has to be booked in advance, and the rink has set hours. The thing Yuuri misses most about Hasetsu, besides all his loved ones, is the unfettered access to a studio and a rink. Dancing in the living room, in the back rooms in the gym on campus, skating while the other skaters can see him—it’s not the same.

 **me:** the hockey team has the rink first thing in the morning

 **me:** so I run or dance

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** ballet :(

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** lilia is coming tomorrow to help me with the program

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** i wish u were here to distract her

 **me:** LILIA BARANOVSKAYA???

Yuuri doesn’t know whether he’s jealous or relieved it’s Viktor meeting her and not him. Minako has met Lilia Baranovskaya, former prima ballerina, Yakov Feltsman’s ex-wife, the woman who choreographed Viktor’s first set of programs. Minako described her her dancing in glowing terms, but she also described Lilia as “the type who eats her enemies”.

He tries to imagine having to dance under Lilia’s eyes. Yeah, it’s definitely relief he’s feeling.

 **me:** i would die

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** haha if u dont hear from me its bc she killed me

 **me:** why would she kill u?

 _ur so good,_ Yuuri almost sends, and then remembers that he’s supposed to not like Viktor’s skating. He deletes it hurriedly.

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** she thinks my free skate is overwrought

 **me:** oh

 **me:** she has a point

Yuuri can imagine Viktor’s offended expression clearly. He snorts as he waits for Viktor to reply.

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** rude

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** im going to ask her if she likes ur skating now

 **me:** NO

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** im going now have a good rest

There is zero chance that Yuuri will get any rest now, but he appreciates the thought.

 

\+ + +

 

[KATSUKI: OUR NEW HOPE

by James Sullivan

I know you guys are sick of hearing me stan for Katsuki, but who gives a fuck? Not me. Lifesize Ken doll Viktor Nikiforov posted on Instagram earlier today, tagging Katsuki in his practice footage, and I swear to god, his dick must be microscopic. Why else would he be so insecure? Katsuki didn’t respond, though, probably because he’s too busy planning to crush him like a bug at Worlds.

Which brings us to today’s Skating Saturday post: Japanese Nationals and why anyone who doubts we’re getting the Katsuki/Nikiforov smackdown we all deserve at Worlds. To start with, let’s compare the base scores of Katsuki’s programs versus those of his competitions’…

Read More

Edit: I hate Viktor as much as the next guy, but threatening to kill him in the comments only gets my advertising yanked. Save it for r/figureskating.

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7843 comments

Comments are closed.]

 

\+ + +

 

**[-2 days until Nationals]**

 

“Good luck,” Phichit says as he helps Yuuri carry his luggage downstairs. Celestino is outside with the car; by tomorrow, Yuuri will be in Japan again. He’ll be competing again. He’ll be watched again, by everyone who saw him implode at the Final.

(Yuuri makes a mental note to avoid talking to any reporters without adult supervision.)

“Thanks.”

“Hey, when you get back, would you mind giving me a hand with something?”

“Sure.” Yuuri shrugs. He can’t imagine what Phichit might need a hand with, but then, he’s been a bit distracted lately. He’ll ask for details when he comes back. He is _not_ helping with another hamster heist.

The ride to the airport is impossibly short; Yuuri is handing his boarding pass to an airline employee before he knows it. Celestino lets him take the window seat, heaving both their bags into the overhead compartment, and Yuuri closes his eyes and rests his head against the glass.

“Get some rest, Yuuri. We’ll be there before you know it.”

That’s what Yuuri is afraid of. He toys with his phone absently, then bite his lip and googles himself. Celestino glares at him, but he ignores it and scrolls through the results.

_...this is Katsuki’s first competition since his provocative comments at the GPF. We’ll see how he measures up against Nikiforov, who will be competing in the Russian Nationals shortly after…_

Viktor is going to be unveiling his revised free skate at the Russian Nationals. Yuuri is going to be doing his revised short program at the Japanese Nationals just before. People are going to be comparing them now, expecting Yuuri to live up to his bragging at the GPF. If Yuuri fucks it up, it will be twice as bad as it was before.

And if Viktor fucks it up, which he won’t because he’s _Viktor,_ Yuuri will know it’s because he gave Viktor bad advice because Yuuri is a coward.

A notification pops up on his phone.

Over the past ten days, he has gotten alarmingly used to Viktor texting him. Yuuri has started to piece together Viktor’s training schedule based on the timing of his texts, which isn’t creepy at all.

Right now Viktor is supposed to be at practice.

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** i want to compete against u at worlds so dont let me down ok

 **< 3 VITYA <3:** lets both win gold

It seems unspeakably arrogant to say that he wants to win gold out loud.

Yuuri couldn’t do it for himself, last time. Maybe he can do it for Viktor instead.

 

\+ + +

 

 **[YUURI KATSUKI JP NATIONALS FREE SKATE 2016 HD]**  
  
_fgrsktngfan  
_ Published on 12/24/2016

 **iceicebaby  
**...won Japanese Nationals by the skin of his teeth. Katsuki’s been struggling with the quad salchow all season, and without it I don’t think he really has a shot at 4CC or Worlds.

 **Katsucutie <3  
**Are you crazy? Katsuki was incredible at Nationals. If he could get a handle on his nerves he’d kick Nikiforov’s ass.

 **tittyblaster6969**  
I mean it’s not like I want Viktor to win, everyone wants him to lose. But Katsuki can’t do it, not if he keeps eating ice every time he jumps.]

 

\+ + +

 

Viktor is calling.

The buzz of the phone is too loud in Yuuri’s room. He fumbles for the phone in his pocket, cursing; he’s still exhausted. He stayed up late to watch the Russian Nationals, and frankly now he kind of regrets it. Or rather, he regrets telling Viktor he was doing it.

It eliminates any excuse Yuuri might have had to avoid having to give Viktor another post-competition critique.

_At least I’m not naked this time._

“Yuuri!”

“Viktor. I mean, Vitya.” Yuuri knows Viktor can’t see him over the phone, but he stares at the ground anyway, because even looking at Viktor’s post-sex profile picture is embarrassing. No video call this time; Yuuri’s learned his lesson. “Congratulations on your win.”

“Never mind my win, did you like it?”

“Ah…”

“I haven’t fallen during a competition in a while,” Viktor says. “Not exactly the kind of surprise for the audience I had in mind, I admit.”

Yuuri has a brief, mean-spirited thought about how nice that must be, not falling in competition, and then he processes what Viktor just said.

“Wait—that fall was an accident?”

“Of course!” There’s a thump in the background, like Viktor has run into something, or dramatically thrown something because Yuuri can’t see his face over the phone. “Wait, you thought I did that on purpose?”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you how bad it was for hours,” Yuuri says. He glances at his laptop, where he’s been rewatching Viktor’s skate and taking notes on it. The video is paused mid-fall; Viktor’s arms are thrown over his head as his knee buckles underneath him. He looks like one of those giant, vaguely humanoid inflatables car dealerships use to advertise. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, the ISU doctor said I was fine. Except for my pride, which may _never_ recover—”

“So you improvised that whole bit with the—the slide and the laying on the ice?”

“I adapted it from an old exhibition skate.”

“That’s…” Yuuri tries to remember what he did when he fell in competition. He recalls the actual falling in humiliating detail, but the actual getting up is hazy, blotted out by the overwhelming sense of failure. “Actually impressive.”

It isn’t a very good bit, in his opinion—off tempo, overdramatic, and out of tone with the story of the program—but considering Viktor choreographed it in the split-second he lost his balance, it’s definitely more memorable than falling and getting up like a normal person. Yuuri can’t imagining being so secure in his own skills that he’d try to disguise a fall as an artistic decision; maybe they give out the confidence with the gold medals.

“That _would_ be the bit you found impressive.” Viktor sighs heavily, a rush of static over the phone. Yuuri starts to protest, but Viktor talks over him. “Never mind, I’ll do better next time.”

How is he going to do better than winning gold, Yuuri thinks but doesn’t ask. The truth is, he rather likes the changes Viktor has made to his choreography. There’s something softened about the way he moves at the beginning that makes his grief more real.

“It’s more depressing. I mean—it’s sadder. Your skating.”

“It’s a sad song.”

“Are you sad?” Yuuri asks. He bites his lip. At least Viktor can’t see his expression right now. What is he thinking, asking Viktor a question like that?

“...I don’t know,” Viktor says.

He doesn’t say anything else. Yuuri stares at his reflection in the hotel’s mirror and wishes he could spontaneously combust, or acquire some basic social skills, or figure out how to explain that he’s not actually an asshole, he just has no idea what he’s doing.

He thinks maybe he’s hurt Viktor’s feelings, but he has no idea how.

Yuuri has no idea how to comfort him, so he does what he would want done, if it were him: he ignores it.

“I liked it,” he says, finally.

“Thank you.” Viktor pauses. “And as for your new program…”

Yuuri doesn’t have the courage to ask if he was awful.

He’s still in a state of shock about winning at Nationals. Rationally, he knew it was possible. He’d done it before. He wanted it. He’d worked for it as hard as he’d ever worked for anything in his life. On one hand, Yuuri made mistakes at Nationals, mistakes he knows he could have avoided because he didn’t make them in practice. On the other hand, he’d accomplished what he wanted, somehow, and that still felt good.

He’s not sure how to feel.

(He doesn’t know what’s worse; Viktor disliking Yuuri’s skating and telling him so, breaking Yuuri’s heart forever, or Viktor disliking Yuuri’s skating and not telling him so, like Yuuri’s too weak to take the critique Viktor is so happy to receive.)

He holds his breath, waiting for what he’s sure will be a scathing critique.

“I liked it,” Viktor says easily. “It was…”

“It was what?” Yuuri asks, too eager.

“It moved me.”

“Ack.” All the air goes out of Yuuri’s lungs.

“Your salchow is a wobbly, and that triple axel at the beginning was disgraceful, but that’s alright.”

“...thanks?”

“Congratulations on your win, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “Hey, did you notice how I…”

He starts discussing the variations in choreography he’s trying to incorporate, and Yuuri scrambles to his computer so he can offer a cogent response.

Viktor says he has to go a few minutes later, which is fine. Yuuri is happy to spend the rest of the evening lying in bed, not even trying to sleep, his disgraceful triple axel forgotten entirely, whispering, “I moved him,” to himself as he hides his smile in the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are what keep this hamster wheel turning


	5. feeling it lately

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “An interview?”
> 
> “Yeah.” Yuuri pokes his egg with the end of his wooden spoon. “He wants me to come be on his podcast, I guess.”
> 
> “When?”
> 
> “During the European Championships.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry it took so long!!! im doing my best

“An interview?”

“Yeah.” Yuuri pokes his egg with the end of his wooden spoon. “He wants me to come be on his podcast, I guess.”

“When?”

“During the European Championships.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“What explains it?”

“Sullivan usually does live commentary of the major competitions. He probably wants you to join him. Haven’t you listened to his show?”

“Been busy. Wait, _you_ listen to it?”

“My PR person sends me a summary if he mentions me.”

“Does he?”

“Almost always. I thought you were a fan of his?”

Yuuri stares into the pan at his sizzling egg. It’s burning. He braved looking at his Twitter last week and discovered that he had blocked Sullivan at some point in the past because Sullivan had retweeted an unflattering Viktor meme. He’s unblocked him now, to avoid exposing himself.

“I don’t really keep up with things like that. I was just, uh, kind of upset after the GPF…”

“So you went looking for people complaining about my performance? Wow.”

“No!” Yuuri says, indignant. This, at least, has the benefit of being completely true. “I was looking for people complaining about mine.”

“...why?”

“No reason.” The answer is because Yuuri is an idiot who bathes his cuts in lemon juice, but Viktor doesn’t need to know that. Maybe he’ll think Yuuri is just very dedicated to self-improvement. “Should I do the interview?”

“Of course! Then I won’t have to wait for my critique.”

“I’m not gonna critique you on his show!”

“Why not? That’s what he wants, someone to complain about me to.”

“Yeah, but…”

Giving Viktor feedback on his programs is rapidly becoming normal. Yuuri can almost do it objectively now, with only brief moments of absolute terror because Viktor is right there, all vulnerable and graceful and dependent on Yuuri’s opinion. If Viktor wants to hear those things, Yuuri doesn’t mind giving them to him. It’s only fair.

But saying those things to the world—to Sullivan—

It’s like being asked to skate naked. It makes Yuuri uncomfortable, and frankly, he’s not sure anyone else needs to be exposed to it.

He tips his slightly charred egg into the bowl of rice—brown rice, unfortunately—and adds hot sauce on top. Now that he has a hand free, he takes out his earbuds and holds the phone against his face while he carries his dinner to the table with the other hand.

It’s weirdly satisfying. His mother would probably keel over if she saw Yuuri putting terrible American hot sauce on his food.

“It will be a good break for you, too. You spend too much time at the rink.”

“Vitya, you’re at the rink right now.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

“I wanted to run through my short program,” Viktor admits. “It feels a little lacking now that I’ve reworked the free.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know. I was going to send you some footage and ask what you thought.”

“You should put a fall in this one, too. You can call it an homage to the movie.”

“Hmm?”

“The movie version of _Pygmalion and Galatea?_ You know, when he knocks her off the pedestal and she comes to life instead of breaking?”

“Oh! I haven’t seen it.”

“What? But your program!”

“I saw the ballet twice.”

“God,” Yuuri says, between the last mouthfuls of the rice and egg. “I can’t believe you hate ballet. I would eat one of Phichit’s hamsters to see _Pygmalion and Galatea_ in person—”

“You would what now?” Phichit asks. Yuuri jumps; he didn’t notice Phichit come out of his room to refill his water bottle. He hasn’t seen Phichit anywhere but the rink in weeks, actually. Has Phichit been eating? Yuuri should probably ask him if he needs Yuuri to leave him leftovers.

“Nothing.”

“I’m watching you, Katsuki,” Phichit says, gesturing to his eyes and then at Yuuri. He screws the top back on his bottle and retreats.

“There’s no need to eat a hamster, love. If you visit me in Russia I’ll take you.”

“I—what?” Yuuri is too thrown by Viktor’s casually calling him ‘love’ to respond with comprehensible sentences.

“And I’ll invite Lilia!”

“I think I’d rather eat the hamster.” A thought comes to Yuuri, and he blurts it out without thinking. “Hey, do you want to watch it?”

“The movie?”

“Yeah.” Yuuri glances down at the table. There’s a perfect circle burned into the surface where Phichit got excited about cooking and forgot to put down a trivet. Inside the circle someone’s drawn an angry face.

“Yes! But when?”

“On your next rest day?” Yuuri can just rearrange his schedule a bit, it’s fine.

“I have a meeting…can I look and let you know?”

“Yeah, sure.”

 

* * *

 

**mari:** hey yuuri what’s with all this press coverage of you? everyone’s saying you hate viktor  
**mari:** im standing in your bedroom right now. you definitely do not hate viktor.

**me:** its a misunderstanding

**mari:** well if you want mom and dad can make a statement

**me:** NO

**me:** i talked to viktor about it already  
**me:** its fine

**me:** dont say anything to anyone

**mari:** well okay  
**mari:** we’ll see you at worlds

**mari:** everyone back home says good luck

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is running through his short program, the way he does at the end of practice, when one of his rinkmates yells at him to answer his phone already. Yuuri’s heart drops. Viktor is busy during this time; is it his family? Is someone hurt? Is Vicchan—

He nearly forgets to put on skate guards in his haste to get to his bag. It’s buried at the bottom, and Yuuri throws his jacket and three pairs of socks on the ground before he retrieves it. He’s got six missed calls and ten texts, but none of them are from his family, and none of them are from Viktor, either. One is from Phichit. Most of them are from a number Yuuri doesn’t recognize at all.

_Who in Russia would want to call me besides Viktor,_ he wonders as he scrolls through the messages. The one from Phichit is just confirming Yuuri’s going to wait after practice for him because Phichit needs his help, but the others…

**unknown number:** piggy what did you do to viktor

**unknown number:** he didnt come to practice

**unknown number:** hes not answering his phone

**unknown number:** did you dump him???

**unknown number:** was this your plan all along?

Yuuri has to take a moment, because Yuri’s messages don’t make any sense. Yuuri can’t dump Viktor; he’s sure a couple of critiques and one night of sex aren’t enough to qualify their relationship as dating. And if Viktor didn’t go to practice, Yuuri can’t imagine what _he_ could have to do with it. He’s on another continent.

He doesn’t bother listening to Yuri’s five voicemails because he can guess what they say; instead he listens to the most recent message, the one from a different number.

“This is Yakov Feltsman, Viktor’s coach. You can ignore Yuri’s messages. He is still young, and impulsive, and concerned about Viktor. Everything here is fine.”

Yakov’s cryptic words do nothing to shed light on the situation. His insistence that everything is fine only makes Yuuri thinks something is wrong. He hesitates; the polite thing to do would be to call Yakov back and ask him for more information, or to call Yuri back and ask him what’s with Viktor. He shouldn’t disturb Viktor if Viktor is sick. For all Yuuri knows, Viktor injured himself in some misguided attempt to follow Yuuri’s idiotic advice and he’s furious with Yuuri and—

_Fuck it,_ Yuuri thinks as he selects ** <3 VITYA <3** and hits call.

“Hello?” Viktor sounds tired. “Yuuri?”

“Viktor! Sorry to call, I just—uh—Yuri called me and then Yakov called me and—anyways, you sound fine, I’ll go now.”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Viktor agrees.

Yuuri nearly hangs up right there and then, but something in Viktor’s voice is off.

“You’re not sick, are you? Yuri said you missed practice.”

“I overslept.”

Yuuri blinks. Viktor overslept? Viktor is a disgustingly cheerful morning person. Every time he calls Yuuri while making his breakfast at five am, making jokes about the sunrise, Yuuri feels like he needs to go back to bed immediately. He sends Yuuri beautiful selfies of himself in front of the dawn sky.

“Oh. Right. Were you up late?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Yuuri swallows. He feels like an idiot, pressing Viktor for information. “I’ll—”

“Makkachin—Makkachin, get off,” Viktor snaps. “Stupid—” He stops. “I’m sorry, Makka, I didn’t mean…please come back. I’m sorry.”

A few minutes pass, the phone pressed against Yuuri’s cheek. He can hear snuffling in the background as Makkachin and Viktor make up. A part of him wants to hang up, still, but the voice of his anxiety is getting fainter and fainter as Yuuri realizes something is wrong, after all. He waits for Viktor to say something, but Viktor doesn’t; once he’s done apologizing to Makkachin, he goes silent, and all Yuuri can hear is the occasional sigh.

“You should go practice, Yuuri.”

“I’m done.”

“I’ll let you go, then.”

“Are you sure you’re fine?”

Viktor sighs heavily. “Yuuri, what possible reason could I have not to be fine?”

“Sometimes people are just sad for no reason,” Yuuri points out. His anxiety definitely doesn’t obey the rational parts of his brain.

“…Yuuri, have you ever felt like…”

“…like?”

“Never mind.” This time Viktor sounds a little better. “Maybe after you see my revised program you’ll understand.” He yawns.

“Are you going to practice?” Yuuri asks.

“I should.”

“We could—” Yuuri scrambles for something, anything to say that will make him feel like he’s been useful. He feels like he’s trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with no edge pieces. “We could play a game.”

“A game?”

“Yeah, Phichit and I do it when we only have enough leftovers for one person. You go get ready, and I’ll go get cleaned up, and whoever’s done first gets—well, we don’t have any leftovers to fight over—a favor.”

“A favor?”

“If you win I’ll send you some of my practice footage.”

“All right.” Viktor yawns again. There’s a rustle like he’s getting out of bed. “And if you win, Yuuri? What do you want?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Well, then. Think about it. Surprise me.” Viktor’s voice drops, goes from sad to sultry. “Ready?”

“Ready!” Yuuri squeaks, and jabs the end call button with his thumb. He takes off for the showers at a dead run. Viktor bragged about using eight hundred dollar lip balm; there is no way his bathroom routine is shorter than Yuuri’s patented ‘wash everything at top speed’ routine, perfected so that he always gets the last of Phichit’s homemade Thai food.

It’s not until he’s on his way out the door that he remembers he was supposed to meet Phichit. He means to text him to reschedule, but then Viktor’s calling him back, and the whole thing slips Yuuri’s mind. 

 

* * *

 

[ _A photograph of Viktor at practice, taken from behind. He has one hand in his hair; the photograph has been filtered so that only his blades are in color._

**20,453 likes**

**v-nikiforov** Getting ready for Bratislava!  <3 #EFSC #goingforgold #beatthischris

**cgiacometti** you may have more gold medals but your butt is not superior  
**y-plisetsky** both of you are gross!!!  
**y-katsuki** good luck [dog]

**View all 4500 comments** ] 

 

* * *

 

“Where are you going?” Phichit asks.

Yuuri is in the process of hauling his suitcase to the front door. He blinks at Phichit, who is eating a late breakfast after their morning practice.

“Huh?”

“Where are you going?” Phichit repeats. “Is this for Sullivan’s show? I thought he was going to come down to Detroit.”

“He was,” Yuuri says, “but I asked him if we could do it on site.”

“On site.”

“At the European Championships.”

“You’re going to Slovakia.”

“Yeah.”

Phichit stares at him. “I’m not your mom or anything,” he says, “but don’t you think you should have mentioned that earlier?”

“…I…” Yuuri tries to remember if he ever even tried to tell Phichit, and can’t. He has no idea how, but he forgot. “Sorry.”

“So I guess you’re not gonna help me with my thing today.”

“Shit. No, I—”

“It’s fine. Have fun.” Phichit picks up his plate and takes it into the kitchen. Yuuri stands there with his mouth open as Phichit puts his dishes in the dishwasher, slams it closed, and then vanishes into his room.

This is the second time Yuuri’s blown Phichit off, and come to think of it, Yuuri’s not even sure he apologized the first time. He feels awful—Phichit is astonishingly even-tempered, this is the first time Yuuri’s ever really pissed him off—but he has no idea what to say. He swallows heavily. He’s going to miss his flight if he doesn’t leave.

“Phichit?” Yuuri drops his bag when there’s no answer and goes to knock on Phichit’s door. “Phichit? I’m sorry.”

There’s no response.

Well, then. Yuuri feels his stomach drop. He’s an asshole. And now he’s late, too. His phone is ringing, as the cab driver calls again. Yuuri picks up his bag and carries it heavily downstairs.

 

* * *

 

**[skating5ever**

SO AM I CRAZY OR

is that Katsuki Yuuri in the stands in Bratislava? at European Championships? wearing an adorable beanie and covering his mouth while Viktor skates his short program?

[katsukispotted.png]

**thiktordikiforov**

That is definitely Katsuki—the stain on the cuff of his jacket matches the one in this pic from the GPF. Plus you can see his phone sticking out of his pocket. What is he doing there?

**katsukicutie**

Uh guys…

[screenshot.jpg]

James Sullivan just posted this as a preview for tomorrow’s Salt On Ice podcast? Apparently he’s in Bratislava right now—you can see the airport signs in the background of his pic. So he’s going to be commentating live, plus he says in the caption that he’s going to have a ‘mystery guest.’

I think we know what Katsuki was doing at the short program now.

**gentlynibbledcockhead**

I’m so disappointed. I’ve been saying forever that the Katsuki/Nikiforov rivalry is just hype and Katsuki didn’t mean anything by what he said at GPF, but if he’s going to actually be on Sullivan’s garbage fire of a show…]

 

* * *

 

Bratislava is cold.

Yuuri pulls down his beanie, which is chartreuse and tragically misshapen. It was a gift from a fellow student, although Yuuri isn’t sure what the occasion was. Americans are weird that way. Yuuri has a hat that’s a little less…fluorescent…but he couldn’t find it, and now he’s wearing this one. He wonders if Viktor will hate it. Maybe he should take it off.

He tries. Immediately his ears are freezing. Yuuri jams the hat back on. At least he’s near the hotel.

The doorman gives him a look as he walks into the lobby; everything is gilded. Yuuri feels out of place, but at least he’s warm. He makes a beeline for the elevators, where there will be fewer people to see him (or, god forbid, post speculative celebrity sighting pics online). Luckily, the first elevator to arrive is empty. It’s also mirrored.

Yuuri takes one look at himself and rips the hat off his head and shoves it into his coat pocket.

The room number is 507. The hallway is quiet, the carpet soft enough to muffle Yuuri’s footsteps.

(Phichit hasn’t texted Yuuri back. It’s been three days.)

He stands outside the room awkwardly, hands in his pockets. The bag with the DVD and the giant bag of popcorn Yuuri smuggled in from Detroit is dangling from his wrist.

His phones buzzes.

**< 3 VITYA <3:** yuuri  
**< 3 VITYA <3:** where is my critique??? you promised  
  
Yuuri takes a deep breath. That’s his cue.

He knocks on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Room service,” Yuuri croaks.

There’s rustling from inside Viktor’s hotel room. “I didn’t order anything,” Yuuri hears him say. “If you’re with the press, I—” The door swings open.

Viktor is, improbably, still wearing his track suit. His mouth drops open.

“Surprise?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are much appreciated! this is a really hard fic to write and feedback keeps me going ;)))


	6. wake you up like sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Yuuri’s defense, literally nothing about this situation with Viktor has gone as planned so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot twist: SOMETIMES I UPDATE MY WIPS

Underneath his tracksuit, Viktor is wearing a tiny black thong.

That’s it. That’s all he’s wearing. Apparently the track suit was just to prevent the paparazzi from getting nudes. Yuuri stands there for several flabbergasted seconds as Viktor strips it off, fastens the chain on the hotel room door, and then turns to give Yuuri a cheerful smile.

“I can’t believe you came!”

“Why wouldn’t I? I mean, I was in Bratislava already.” Oh, that’s cute! Viktor doesn’t know Yuuri is the living embodiment of one of those sports drinks ads where the athlete is just upending the bottle over their head.

“I know! I was going to ask, but I thought you were too busy.”

“No, I…I’m not.” Yuuri holds up the popcorn and DVD awkwardly. “I brought the movie.”

“You—Pygmalion and Galatea? Great, let me get my computer.” Viktor has to bend over to get his computer out of his bag. Which is. It’s a lot. A lot of ass. Yuuri stares at the ground and wonders if he’s being rewarded for his sins, or punished for them. Is Viktor not going to put on pants? Is this what he’s actually like? Is this why all his selfies are shirtless? Does he just lie around naked at home? Yuuri is learning so much today. So much. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Yuuri swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and takes off his jacket and shoes while Viktor sets up the computer. While Viktor is putting in the disc, Yuuri grabs the empty ice bucket, dries it with a nearby towel, and dumps in the popcorn so they can eat out of it.

Viktor lies down on the bed, against the pillows, and pats the empty space beside him. His smile is like a siren’s call; despite Yuuri’s misgivings, and his very real fear of an awkward boner, Yuuri joins him. The computer rests on Viktor’s thigh; for them to both see it, Yuuri has to sit close to Viktor. He has to sit very close to Viktor. He has to put his head on Viktor’s shoulder to see properly.

Okay, maybe he doesn’t have to, but Viktor leans his cheek against Yuuri’s hair, so he must not mind.

“How different is this from the ballet?”

“Well, the guy who wrote the screenplay really hated the original…”

“Excellent, we have that in common.”

“You used it for a program!”

“Just because I relate to it doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

Yuuri is a bit alarmed that Viktor relates to Galatea’s deep existential angst and her desire to be turned back into a statue because living is too hard. He’s not sure that’s meant to be relatable. He makes a face as Viktor hits play.

Minako was the one who’d first showed him Pygmalion and Galatea—first with pieces she performed for him in the studio, then with grainy footage from performances she’d attended. When the movie came out Yuuri had watched it repeatedly, even though it was derided for being inaccurate and unfaithful to the original. Though the music he’s chosen for his short program is from the ballet, when Yuuri performs it he thinks of the movie instead. Where the ballet is tragic, the movie is a little more lighthearted.

“Ha,” Viktor laughs as Pygmalion, bumbling around his studio, knocks Galatea off the pedestal. She falls in slow motion; the movie cuts to a close up of Pygmalion’s horrified expression. As she crashes to the ground, she turns from marble to woman in an astonishing bit of special effects that won the movie its only award. “Do I look that ridiculous in my skate?”

“Yes.”

“Rude.”

Pygmalion performs a musical number celebrating his marriage to Galatea—then someone explains to Galatea what marriage is and she loses her temper with him for tricking her.

 _I thought you would be the perfect woman,_ Pygmalion cries, and beside him Yuuri feels Viktor shudder.

He turns to look at Viktor, but it’s too late; Viktor’s expression is perfectly composed. Onscreen Galatea sings about discovering the world and herself; she is throwing her things into a sack and fleeing the house while Pygmalion is at Aphrodite’s temple leaving an offering.

Somewhere in between Pygmalion discovering her absence and Galatea discovering alcohol, Yuuri discovers Viktor’s arm is now around his shoulders.

There is a scene, mid-movie, while Galatea is exploring the world. Buried in a montage of Galatea being admired everywhere she goes is a brief clip of her ice skating.

“I’ve seen this bit,” Viktor remarks. “But I didn’t know it was from this movie.”

“I did it once,” Yuuri lies. Yuuri has done this excerpt of a step sequence hundreds of times. He even taught it to Phichit in exchange for Phichit teaching him Arthur’s routine from The King and The Skater. The thought of Phichit, who has still not texted Yuuri back, gives him a pang in his chest. “Just for fun.”

“I went through a phase where I spent two weeks learning one of Yakov’s old programs,” Viktor says. “I don’t even remember why, now. I think he was almost pleased.”

“Was it a good program?”

“It was a lot more fun than I would have expected from a man who looks like the living embodiment of high blood pressure.”

Yuuri snorts. He can’t blame Yakov for looking like that; Yuuri feels like that with Viktor sometimes too. He takes a handful of popcorn, which is just as he likes it: slightly stale, crunchy, and drenched in fake butter. Viktor eats his popcorn one piece at a time. It looks exhausting. Then again, Yuuri is pretty sure he has butter all over his face and hand now.

 _Attractive,_ he thinks.

Viktor passes him a towel.

“Wait, this is wrong,” Viktor says as the familiar strains of Galatea’s Lament begin to play. “She hasn’t been rejected by the gods yet! This is supposed to be how the movie ends!”

“Uh,” Yuuri says. “They...they changed it.”

“Changed it to what?”

Galatea, slumped on her knees in the snow onscreen and begins to sing. Her voice is powerful, the music behind her is lush and orchestral, the falling snow sits heavily on her shoulders. Yuuri ducks his head to blink back tears as Pygmalion, concealed behind a snowdrift, finally catches up to her, after two hours of following behind. He watches with wonder as he sings in harmony with her..

Beside him Viktor makes a noise of outrage that suggests Yuuri is going to get an earful as soon as the credits roll. He sighs and lets himself snuggle in closer to Viktor; best to enjoy it while he can.

 

* * *

 

“I mean, he clearly didn’t care about her at all.”

“Yeah.”

“And they changed the song lyrics! They ruined them! They mistranslated them! And people have been tweeting me memes about it!”

“Totally.”

“I can’t believe she took him back—can you believe she took him back?”

“Do you seriously like the version where she ends up immortal and miserable _better?”_

“Yes!”

“You’re a Russian stereotype.”

“It’s called having national pride.”

Yuuri has read every version of the every argument for and against Pygmalion and Galatea the movie’s changes to the ending of the original. In Viktor’s version, Galatea climbs Mt. Olympus to beg to be turned back into a statue; instead they grant her eternal youth to preserve her beauty. In Yuuri’s version, before she can reach the gods, Pygmalion finds her and convinces her to stay married to him.

Viktor thinks it’s unrealistic and saccharine, which is about what Yuuri expects from someone who is skating two depressing programs about love in one season. This fits perfectly with Yuuri’s image of Viktor so far—Viktor who disdains weird modern art and who has a lot of opinions about moisturizer—but he still has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“I like happy endings,” Yuuri says.

“That isn’t a happy ending, it’s the prelude to a lifetime of emotional abuse.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You are wrong about this.” Viktor covers his mouth with his hand as he yawns. “Should we listen to your interview now?”

“Wha—you want to listen to it?”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

“Of course! What if I have questions about my critique?”

Yuuri jerks himself out of Viktor’s grasp, where he’s been lying warm and comfortable and stupid against Viktor’s bare chest. He upends the bucket and spills popcorn crumbs all over the carpet. What happened to the original plan, the one where after the movie Yuuri claimed an early flight and fled? Oh, right, proximity to Viktor means all of Yuuri’s higher brain functions are shot.

“I’m actually tired,” Yuuri says hurriedly. “Super tired. And I have to get up really early in the morning, so—”

“But you have an afternoon flight.”

“I have to buy Phichit something.”

“Oh, you’re going shopping! Why don’t you stay here and we can go together?”

“Uh—”

“I can help you shop.”

“Right.” Yuuri swallows. Best to get it over with, like how when you execute someone with a bullet, you put it in the back of their head where all the vital functions are so they die instantly. “Look, I was an asshole during that interview. You probably don’t want to listen to it.”

Viktor laughs.

“I’m serious!”

“I caught the highlights earlier. I thought you were too restrained, to be honest. This is a good opportunity to build up your reputation, you know? You should play up the rivalry more.”

“...you’re not offended?”

“If I went around being offended by every stupid thing people said about me on the internet—” Viktor gestures widely. “You think Sullivan actually means all those things about me? Please. He’s just found an easy way to increase his audience. I feel bad for him, he must have to spend ages coming up with new ways to insult me.” He shrugs. “Besides, you had sex with me and you stared at my ass when you thought I wasn’t looking, you can’t really think I’m repulsive.”

“I don’t think you’re repulsive,” Yuuri says faintly, “and I wasn’t staring.”

“Your mouth was open.”

“Shut up.”

Yuuri rolls off the bed and kneels down to pick up the bits of popcorn from the carpet. He tosses them in the trash. As he dusts off his hands, sweat drips into his eyes. It’s oppressively warm in here, or maybe it’s his anxiety, or maybe that’s just what Viktor’s body does to any room he’s in, and that’s why he’s lounging around in a thong.

“You can borrow something to sleep in,” Viktor offers.

Did Yuuri have any intention of sleeping over in Viktor’s hotel room? No. Is he going to? Yes. He puts the bucket aside and approaches Viktor’s bag, which is both zipped up and neat, two things Yuuri’s luggage never is. Inside are a lot of folded clothes and pouches with small bottles of toiletries in them. Yuuri hesitates, fingertips lingering over a tshirt. He feels...weird about wearing Viktor’s clothes.

(He feels like he really, really wants to wear them, and really, really wishes he was chill about it.)

“If you want to sleep in the nude, that’s fine too!”

“No!” Yuuri slams the suitcase shut and fumbles with the zipper. “I have underwear. It’s fine.”

Citing his buttery hands as an excuse, he ducks into the bathroom to strip. He leaves his clothing folded on a shelf in the bathroom with the towels. The mirror mocks him as Yuuri glances at himself—sweaty, bruised, unlikely to raise the temperature of the room—so he turns out the light.

Viktor has taken out his phone and a pair of earbuds, and is listening to something that makes him smile. Despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, and the fact that Yuuri’s just realized he’s wearing boxers with holes in them, he lies back down.

“Are you listening to it?”

Viktor nods and offers him an earbud. Yuuri shakes his head; he has no desire to relive the interview. He rolls over until his head is resting on Viktor’s outstretched arm. This close, he can hear the tinny sound of Sullivan ranting, though he can’t quite make out the words.

Somehow, Sullivan had gotten them permission to record the interview live during the performances. Seated in a soundproof box with the microphone in front of him, Yuuri had sat hunched over in his seat, dead certain someone would see him and hurling rotten fruit at him. He’d already gotten hundreds of Twitter notifications after being seen in the crowd during the short programs the day before.

In person, Sullivan was deceptively normal—he made small talk about Yuuri’s flight, offered Yuuri a drink—and they’d discussed the format of the show briefly before the broadcast began. Sullivan had even professed to be one of Yuuri’s fans, which had been uncomfortable: even ignoring the weirdness of someone as picky as Sullivan liking Yuuri’s skating, there was no polite way to say ‘if you’re not Viktor’s fan you can’t be mine’.

To Yuuri’s relief, he’d only been required to talk shit about Viktor’s skating for five minutes. Unfortunately, that was the only thing about that segment of the show that hadn’t been like a root canal to the brain.

“Mm,” Viktor says. He takes out one earbud. “You don’t like the fall?”

“I don’t like where it is.”

“Well, there are only so many places.”

“Can’t you backload one of the jumps?”

“No, I’d get tired.”

“It just feels like it’s too early. And it’s still kind of ugly.”

“It’s an expression of grief!”

“What, for the audience watching?”

“Yuuri!”

“You can do better,” Yuuri mumbles. “Your short program was stunning.”

Viktor grins and pulls Yuuri in a little closer. It’s deja vu; wasn’t Yuuri just here, sprawled loose and boneless and undressed against Viktor? Hadn’t he told himself that it was a once in a lifetime chance, and he had to make the most of it? And here he is again, invited into Viktor’s hotel room, allowed close enough to see the leftover mascara clinging to one lash. Yuuri wouldn’t classify himself as a touchy person, but lying here with Viktor feels as natural as skating figures alone at dawn.

“I saw you there in disguise,” Viktor says. “It wasn’t a good disguise, though. I should lend you a wig.”

“I can’t believe people recognized me.”

“You realize the audience is mostly skating fans, yes? You are an internationally ranked top skater?”

“...I guess?”

Listening to Viktor call him a ‘top skater’ gives Yuuri a weird mixture of feelings—he’s incredulous, he’s flattered, and he’s also kind of turned on. This is dialogue baby Yuuri put in Viktor’s mouth back when Yuuri wrote self-insert fanfiction about his OC, Yuuki Katsuri, marrying Viktor Nikiforov after a meet-cute at the Olympics. Reality doesn’t even feel real anymore.

“Fine, so you don’t like the fall,” Viktor says with a sigh. “Lilia doesn’t, either. What else?” He puts his earbud back in. Yuuri cringes—the last two minutes of the interview had been the worst—but Viktor’s expression remains thoughtful as he listens.

“Sorry, I told you it was bad.”

“You hardly even said anything, Yuuri. All you did say ‘yeah’ and complain about my choreography.”

“Yeah, but...that makes it sound like I agree with everything he said!”

 _You would think I would have learned the first time,_ Yuuri thinks in despair. _Nope, I’m still an idiot._

The truth is, Yuuri had had no idea how to respond. He’d been completely unprepared for the experience, and completely thrown by Sullivan’s vitriol, and since Yuuri’s response to high anxiety was generally no talking or screaming, he’d defaulted to the former.

Viktor listens for long enough that Yuuri realizes he must be listening to the actual interview portion of the show. That had also been a terrible experience, but only because Yuuri hates answering questions about himself. And Sullivan didn’t shy away from asking personal questions, either, or from laughing at Yuuri when he got too flustered to answer.

He’d offered to take Yuuri out for a drink afterwards, but Yuuri had already been busy trying to Google Map his way to Viktor’s hotel.

“I’m disappointed,” Viktor says when he’s finished listening. “You sound completely unprepared and your critique was subpar. And you wouldn’t say what your favorite sexual position was.”

“That’s what you’re mad about?”

“What else is there to be mad about? You promised me a critique and instead I had to watch a terrible movie.”

“Well, I couldn’t really critique you on the show.” Yuuri rubs his nose. “I mean, that stuff is just between us, isn’t it?”

Yuuri sighs deeply. It’s a huge relief that Viktor isn’t mad at him, but it’s so huge that Yuuri can’t help but pick at it, like a scab about to peel off. He rolls over so that his head is on the pillow, not crushing Viktor’s bicep; they lie facing each other. Yuuri’s glasses are digging into his cheek. He takes them off so that everything behind Viktor becomes a blur.

Viktor is smiling at him.

“I thought it was better,” Yuuri says. “Just...restrained, I guess.”

“Mm.”

Yuuri hesitates, groping for something else to say that isn’t repeating himself or pointing out technical things that Viktor has to have noticed himself. Everything he planned to say before seems trite now, and yet this is the only thing Viktor has asked of him. How can Yuuri not give it to him?

“I mean,” he starts, stops, “I just…”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said to me before,” Viktor says abruptly. “About my not being real.”

“About your interpretation of the program not feeling real.”

“Is there really a difference?”

“Well, yeah,” Yuuri says. He peers at Viktor, alarmed.

“It’s frustrating. You spend so much time commissioning music, and designing costumes, and choreographing, and practicing, and then in the minutes when it actually counts—” Viktor flicks the fingers of his free hand. “And everyone keeps congratulating me for doing so well. But—”

“But you know you can do better,” Yuuri finishes. “And everyone keeps saying you’re a top skater when actually, you can’t even do a _quad salchow.”_

Viktor stares at him like he’s speaking in tongues. “I _can_ do a quad salchow.”

“I was talking about me.”

“Oh.”

Yuuri puts his arm over Viktor’s body, and Viktor turns into it, so that they’re kind of hugging.

“There’s still a whole month until Worlds,” Yuuri mutters. “You’ll figure it out before then.” He thinks about that one day Viktor missed practice, and wonders if there’s something he’s missing, some piece of the puzzle he has yet to fit into place. Sullivan had poked fun at Viktor’s programs for being so depressing. Maybe there had actually been a break up. Maybe someone had actually broken Viktor’s heart and he’s having trouble because skating just reminds him of it.

 _Maybe I should just ask him_ , Yuuri thinks. He opens his mouth and realizes that ‘did someone break up with you’ is a loaded question and abandons the entire endeavor in favor of giving Viktor an awkward pat on the back.

“Maybe.” Viktor says, without answering Yuuri’s unspoken question. He looks kind of sad now. Yuuri doesn't like it; he blurts out the first stupid thing that comes to mind and immediately regrets it.

“I like being on top.”

“Excuse—really?”

“Yes?”

Viktor yawns. Yuuri yawns, too; somehow it’s gotten late without either of them noticing. And Yuuri still has to buy Phichit an apology gift before his flight out.

“Should we…” Yuuri trails off. Viktor does want him to stay over, right? Does he want to have sex right now? What should he do? “I’ll get the light.”

He gets the lights. When he come back, Viktor is under the covers, and when Yuuri joins him he rolls over, and just keeps going until he’s plastered over Yuuri’s back. He’s too warm, too heavy, and too naked. Yuuri has no idea how he’s going to fall asleep like this; he can feel Viktor’s nipples against his back, for fuck’s sake.

“I’m really glad you came,” Viktor mumbles. “I hate sleeping in hotel beds alone.”

“Me, too,” Yuuri whispers. Up until this moment, Yuuri cannot say he had any opinions about hotel beds other than they needed to be clean and dry. But Viktor is right; being with him is superior to being alone.

(Yuuri is surprised that he falls asleep quickly. But he’s not surprised that he has a lot of embarrassingly explicit dreams and he can only hope Viktor is not a light sleeper.)

 

* * *

 

Yuuri wakes to his phone alarm blaring and to Viktor running his hands through his hair. Between last night and this morning, he’s turned over, so that he’s sleeping with his face crushed against Viktor’s chest. Which feels great for him, and makes Yuuri hope his face isn’t abnormally pointy in any way.

“Vitya?”

“Mm…” Viktor blinks at him, obviously still half-asleep. He sleeps with his mouth open and there’s drool on his face. “Oh. You’re not Makkachin.” He does not stop playing with Yuuri’s hair, despite what must be crushing disappointment. His other arm is locked around Yuuri’s body, fingers brushing Yuuri’s ribs.

“Are you cold?”

“A little,” Viktor whispers. “The hotel blanket is terrible.”

“All hotel blankets are terrible,” Yuuri whispers back.

The alarm shuts off after a minute, which means that Yuuri has to rely on his willpower to get him out of bed and dressed. So he’s going to spend the rest of his life in this bed, clearly, unless Viktor gets up first.

“Oh, look,” Viktor says. “You’re on top.” He waggles his eyebrows, or tries to. It looks like he has a cramp in his face.

“Ugh,” Yuuri says, because if he tries actual words he knows they’ll be stupid ones, and kisses him. He means it to be one kiss.

In Yuuri’s defense, literally nothing about this situation with Viktor has gone as planned so far.

 

* * *

 

 **James Sullivan** @jamessullivan

[bootycall.jpg]

Did Katsuki just con me into flying him to Slovakia so he could fuck Nikiforov?

 **ice ice baby** @egglord999

@jamessullivan is that katsuki going in and out of viktor’s hotel in the same clothes???

 **quad squad 5ever** @yokelnuts

@jamessullivan where did you get these? [EYES] why did he have all that popcorn wtf

 **step on me yuuri** @steponmeyuuri

@jamessullivan omgggg sleeping with your rival right after you trash him in public...total power move

 **absolutely not** @tonyataylor

@jamessullivan did you see this? [katsukiairport.png] why is yuuri carrying a king and the skater cardboard cutout through the bratislava airport?

 **step on me yuuri** @steponmeyuuri

@tonyataylor is yuuri cheating on phichit with viktor? O.O also that must have been a nightmare through airport security

 **ice ice baby** @egglord999

@steponmeyuuri how many times do we have to tell you people phichit and yuuri arent dating just because two people are roommates doesnt mean they have to date, rl isnt a fanfic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my friend spooky's birthday! If you want to continue to read excellent yoi fanfics, feel free to check her out and leave her nice comments [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot)


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